


And Only Lovers Will Survive

by moonbutch



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bondage, But Written By An Actual Trans Person, Dubious Consent, Everything You Would Expect From A Daken B-Plot Up To And Including:, F/M, Friends to Friends With Benefits to Lovers, Internalized Biphobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Negative Zone Trauma, Pheromones, Slow Burn, Spideytorch-Centric, The Johnny/Peter is entirely consensual just to be clear, Trans Peter Parker, sex as self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbutch/pseuds/moonbutch
Summary: Johnny returns from New Attilan single and broke and drunk and completely, utterly alone. He can’t go home tonight, he can’t sleep in his own bed.Johnny Storm finds someone to fuck him whenever he wants to hurt himself. He just doesn't understand why Peter won'tlethim.It's gonna get worse before it gets better.





	1. To The Bed, To Give Head

**Author's Note:**

> All titles from the album MASSEDUCTION by St Vincent.
> 
> Takes place some time nebulously after TASM#3 (Slott and Camuncoli). Johnny's entire family left him and he doesn't know why. Peter is currently sitting on the Baxter Building until they come home because he's rich now, and wears a lot of ill-fitting suits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny breaks up with Medusa. He handles it badly.

 

Johnny returns from New Attilan single and broke and drunk and completely, utterly alone. He can’t go home tonight, he can’t sleep in his own bed.

He doesn’t remember her name, he doesn’t really know the language well enough to repeat it, but she’s 7 feet tall and blue and naked underneath him and she wants him. And he knows he shouldn’t, he’s still raw, but fuck it feels so good to be _wanted_. She’s writhing beneath him when heavy-lidded eyes slide down his chest, soft and warm- her species runs hotter than humans, he’s just basking in the so so warm body heat and he beams at her and does that thing with his teeth and her body sighs back into the crisp sheets.

Johnny slides up the length of her skin to kiss her full on the mouth, and she tastes herself on his tongue and he bucks up desperately as she pushes his head back down between her legs. Johnny goes pliant with it and moans wetly as he sucks on her clit, unabashed and she smirks up at him and purrs,

“ _Vurshka’lan,_ ”

and oh. Oh he knows this one, and he wishes he didn’t.

_Little slut._

Johnny freezes above her and ignores the sudden frustrated gyrating of her hips against his face. He pushes up onto his elbows and is very quiet for a moment and his throat is very dry and then he licks his lips and bolts for the door, squeezes his eyes shut tight, flames on and flies as far as he can before the tears stinging his eyes in the wind are too thick to see.

 

🔥

 

“ _Johnnyyyy,_ ” Daken purrs. “ _Close your eyes and open your mouth_.”

Johnny Storm tilts his head back over the edge of the couch and juts his collarbone out a little too sharply, too desperate for it. His throat is wrenched open as Daken fucks into it standing up. His breathing is even, thrusts clinical and measured; Johnny realizes with dismay that he seems _bored._ He redoubles his efforts and chokes as the tip of Daken’s cock hits his soft palate. He’s _so so hard_ and keeps valiantly thrusting his hips in hopes of finding any contact. When he’s _whining_ and his body has started to shake Daken pulls out unceremoniously, an obscene popping sound and a trail of drool following as he flips Johnny and takes him from behind.

Daken must be putting something into the air because Johnny is open and ready for him with no prep and every graze of his skin feels so _good_. He’s too dazed to fully process this thought and decides to file it away for later.

Daken’s movements are punctuated by the occasional encouragement-

_“Good slut,”_

_“Be loud for me. I want your family to know what we’re doing.”_

Johnny can only fight not to swallow his tongue as his pulse skyrockets whenever the toned, tattooed skin brushes against his. There’s no warning when Daken stops rocking up into him and Johnny feels cum seeping out of his ass and pooling on the sheets as he pulls out.

Daken twists his head upward to look him in the eyes and breathes into his mouth,

 

“ _Come_ ,”

And Johnny does.

 

🔥

 

“Johnny. How long have you been on the roof. You scared the Hell out of my secretary.”

“I was gonna fly through the window and wait for you but then I remembered Franklin used to- well- you’re still too much of a human disaster to un-childproof them I guess.”

He hunches into himself a little more, curling up and angling his face away from Peter. “Johnny, what happened.”

“I… M- M-Medusa… got t-tired of me.”

Peter stills, sucks on his bottom lip before continuing. “Oh. Johnny, I’m so sorry. But you also didn’t. You didn’t seem happy.”

“Pete why does everyone leave m-me? Am I that unloveable-”

At this Peter muffles a laugh into his sleeve, runs a hand down his face to regain composure. Johnny scowls at him and turns away. “You- Johnny _no_ . You’re _so easy-_ ”

 Johnny stands now, stumbles back like he’s been burnt- like he remembers what that feels like- and Peter swears the air around them drops ten degrees when he speaks. “I’m easy.”

“That’s… not what I meant. I uh, you just give so much of yourself away. I wish you’d be more careful with your heart, Torch.”

Peter rises and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Listen flamebrain, did _she_ know you were dating because I thought you were just her, you know, consort? I’m sorry you’re gonna miss out on all the weird magic hair bondage now but-”

Johnny chokes. “What?”

 “Maybe it’s not weird to you. I don’t know. You invite your closest friends over to watch your sex tape, I spend all day in spandex and a mask, who am I to judge.”

“No I- _what?_ We nev- I mean. I mostly…. Was on… I, whatever _she_ wan...

“REALLY. Not once.... She never thought to offer….”

Johnny’s face ripples with heat and he feels his shoulders scrunching impossibly higher. “ _First_ of all, I’m a top,”

 “-Well that’s just inconsiderate. If you ever want-” Peter interrupts and then trails off mid-sentence,  _again_ , the infuriating prick.

“What.”

“NOTHING.” He rises, shaking his head and pressing big fingers to his brow.

“No, what were you gonna say. I'm in my mourning period, Spidey. I'm fragile. You _wound_ me. My best friend, keeping secrets from me in this tender emotional state.”

“I mean. If you. My uh, my web shooters might create a sensory analog, if you ever-” 

“Good _bye_ , Pete.” 

Unbelievable. Johnny turns on his heel, drops off the roof like a stone and flames on, streaks back home lighting up the night sky.

 

🔥

 

Johnny rises two days later from an 80 proof haze to One Direction blaring from his phone, and squints at it reproachfully. It’s almost 7PM. “Pete?” He answers hoarsely. 

“Hey, Torch. How are you?”

Johnny says nothing. Phone pressed to his ear, he turns down the bed and kicks the empty bottles beneath it, swaying on his feet just a little.

“You haven’t been responding to my texts and I- got worried. Can I do anything?”

Johnny inhales and just holds it there, in his cheeks in his chest for a moment.

 

“Come over.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny does canonically have a stutter that comes out when he's overwhelmed or upset and people should write it in to their Smut Worldbuilding more because it's... really cute.
> 
> He really did invite Peter over to watch his alleged sex tape, in Spider-Man Digital #17.


	2. I Am A Lot Like You (Boys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Negative zone dysmorphia and chill.

Johnny ghosts a hand under his shirt and remembers  _ dying _ , traces the tiny scars from being brought back, screaming, over and over. He turns away from Peter.

“Lights out.”

“Johnny, if you don’t want to d-”   


“I didn’t say that.” His other hand tightens imperceptibly around Peter’s collar.  _Don't go._

“It’s my one rule, Spidey. Do whatever you want but it has to be in the dark.”

Peter closes his eyes and is still for a moment. “Okay. Okay.” He webs the light switch and tugs gently, and the room fades to black. Johnny hears his pulse hammer in his ears. “Strip down and grab onto the headboard for me.”

 

🔥

 

Peter turns out to be. Well.  _ Really strong. _ He must have been bitten by a heavyweight pro wrestler spider because Johnny is undulating beneath him and whenever he tries to lift his core for better leverage, he’s rendered immobile by a  _ finger.  _ It’s just so  _ much  _ and he wishes he could cover his face with his hands because he’s never felt so overwhelmed, so vulnerable in front of his best friend.

“Hey. You here with me?” Peter soothes, ghosting his lips across Johnny’s bound hands. He must have felt the tensing of Johnny’s shoulders beneath him. “I don’t have to speak, if that’s. Easier. You can pretend it’s her.”

Medusa couldn’t do this for him. He couldn’t pretend this is a woman if he wanted to.

He freezes, fully processing the traitorous train of thought. Peter… Peter doesn’t know.  “No, yuh- you’re. Fine. U-uhm.” Johnny swallows in the dark. 

 

_ I _ _ t’s fine,  _ you’re _ fine. You can do it. He’ll find out, sooner or later. Just tell him. You like men. _

 

“Pete, I. I like…”

Teeth scrape lightly along his inner thigh and Johnny tries to buck up, into the sensation or away from it he doesn’t know, but his ankles are webbed tight to the bedposts and all he manages is a soft, punched-out groan. “What do you like, Johnny.”

It’s not a question. It’s a demand.

The confession is lost in his throat. Maybe he can drag this out a little longer before his friend leaves him in disgust. And then he can call Bobby, or Wyatt, or. Or Daken. It’s  _ fine _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny... you're so stupid. How could anyone not love you


	3. Hold You Like A Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny misses his family and gets really sad and does not take care of his body. 
> 
> Peter has to step in and do it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first scene is really short but graphic. I put a ton of archive warnings just to be safe. Johnny has a dubcon encounter and then we see the aftermath with Peter taking care of him. There's also a brief reference to Sup*rior Spider-Man.

He does find Daken’s bed again. It’s the thunder that knocks him out; It makes his heart sick for Sue, sitting with her face pressed to the glass of the window watching headlights blur through fat droplets and dragging her family out when there’s a really good storm to catch rain on their tongues.

Peter goes straight to voicemail- has a conference he can’t miss, and there’s a lot Johnny can’t miss right now, not alone. He needs noise and pressure and adrenaline to drown it out.

 

Daken can hold him down too. He’s a better fuck than Peter, doesn’t treat him like something fragile. His hands are hot and his teeth are sharp and Johnny feels flayed raw before him, guttural gasps escaping his throat with every touch. Bruises bloom purple and black on his face, his thighs, interrupt the pale, scarred skin of his chest. He presses into the pain and knows, this time, he’s alive.

Daken’s claws unsheath with a guttural moan when he unravels for the fourth time and still hasn’t let Johnny come. Johnny’s eyes go wide with arousal and he reaches out to grasp the metal, entranced. Wraps his lips around it and sucks hard, hollows his cheeks and moans at the sudden slick trickle of blood. He’s pulled upright abruptly with a sickening pop, restrained by a vice grip on his jaw before he can swallow the talon down to Daken’s fingers, and he _whines_ , eyes blown, tries to wrench his head back down to take it in one fluid motion, and Daken doesn’t look bored with him any more. Finally, he’s done something right.

The mutant draws his claws back in to the rough skin of his knuckles and runs a thumb across Johnny’s red lips, the first gentle touch Johnny’s felt this week. “I didn’t mean to,” Daken says softly.

He wipes them both down with Johnny’s designer raw denim, tosses it onto the hard tile at Johnny’s feet and backs out of the room, eyes wide like he’s seen the ghost in Johnny’s chest. “I didn’t mean to. You need to go.”

 

🔥

 

Johnny is kneeling on the bed in cum-stained (not his) jeans and blood-stained (mostly his) lips and Peter’s second softest t-shirt when he _finally_ comes home. Peter hangs his ( _untailored!_ ) suit jacket and is halfway through removing his shirt when he hears a soft sigh and whirls, Spidey-sense screaming that something is _wrong._ He takes in the marks on Johnny's perfect skin, the shaking of his hands. “Johnny. What did this to you.” Johnny doesn’t speak, doesn’t react to his presence.

Peter scrambles for the first aid kit in his night table and runs to his friend’s side. “Johnny, talk to me. I need to know you’re okay. Did you go nova?” Strong hands begin to wrap his shoulder in gauze, and Johnny hums in contentment at the brief contact. “Next time you _call me_ instead of rushing into a fight alone. I would have come. When you need me I’ll always come.”

“Yeah,” Johnny murmurs. “Yes. Wanna make you cum.”

Tentative fingers brush a bruise on his cheek. “Shit. Is this a hickey?” He sighs and leans into it, turns his head to suck the fingers into his mouth. “Yessss.” Peter tears his hand away, and his fingers come away red. “Johnny… _Who_ did this to you?”

Johnny flashes him a bloody grin and slurs, “It’s okay. It was consensual.”

Peter grabs him by the shoulders and shakes, harder than he probably intended to. Johnny lets his body collapse against the strong hands bracing him. “Johnny! I need a name.”

“Da- mmm. _Daken_.” Peter stills. He grips Johnny tighter and leans back to look in his eyes. The pupils are still blown wide and unfocused. “Daken. With the pheromones.”

“ _Enthusiastic_ consent.” Johnny waggles his eyebrows and Peter tries not to notice his cock jumping in his obscenely tight jeans.

“Johnny. Sweetheart... what did he make you do.”

“I wanted it! I wanted it!” Johnny was used to being the baby, to being the one caught up in scandals, the one the kids weren’t allowed to google. He _wanted,_ so desperately, to be treated like an adult and trusted to make his own decisions. But right now he wanted to be touched. “It's not a b-big deal, not like- Daken’s not like _him_ , Pete. He wasn’t in my head. He didn’t m-make me do anything I didn’t want to do. He just, _aah_ , just makes you want it _more._ ”

Peter whirls on him and scowls. “You don’t get to do that. You can’t just go fuck other men and then use Otto against me. You made a _choice_. I didn’t have one.” Okay. He thinks wanting men is a choice. That’s… fine. It just means Johnny has nothing left to lose.

"You _chose_ to keep the money, and m-my home, and to be at a b-business conference when I needed you here.”

Peter bites his own lip and runs a hand through Johnny’s hair, unsticking it from the light crust of blood at his temple, ignores the way Johnny keens in response. “Your _mouth is bleeding._ I can’t talk about this right now. I’m getting you water. And hydrogen peroxide.”

Johnny starts to shake again. “ _No_!”

Peter's fingers start to reach out for him, then curl into a tight fist at his side, knuckles flaring white. "Look, you did something stupid but I’m not gonna let you bleed ou-"

“ _NO,”_ Johnny gasps. His voice has shifted up an octave without his permission, and his skin is smoking. “Please. Peter please don’t leave me. I have to come you have to let me come please please please please."

Peter steeples his hands and pushes at the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to do anything with you like this, we have to get you cleaned up. Come here.” He scoops up Johnny like he weighs nothing and he clings to the firm ropes of muscle in Peter’s shoulders, boneless, digs his ankles in tight to his lower back as he’s carried to the Executive Washroom. Peter has to pry his arms free to set him gently in the large marble tub, and runs tense fingers through his hair with one hand as the other rummages beneath the sink, tosses bottles onto the floor while murmuring comforts. Despite Peter’s best efforts Johnny finds himself rutting against the cool smooth marble, and Peter has to hold his chin firmly in place to clean him up. Johnny moans at the sensation of the steady grip, the washcloth running gingerly across his face. When he winces at a bruise on his thigh knocking the rim of the tub, Peter raises his eyebrows and pauses.

“Johnny. Sunshine, would you take off your clothes for me?”

Johnny’s sure he’s never complied so fast in his life. Peter tosses them unceremoniously into a corner by the door, and Johnny is just lucid enough to scowl at him for it before he begs for Peter’s dick. Peter’s nails dig into the meat of his forearm and he shakes his head hard. “I’m not going to do anything. I can’t now. I _can’t_ if you’re… like this.”

Suddenly the bath is on and warm water is cascading around him and warm hands are washing blood from his chest and thighs and he’s crying, and Peter softly kisses his forehead and Johnny comes, just from this, _finally_ , finally.

 

🔥

 

He sits up from the aftershocks, head immediately clear, and looks at his friend who can’t bear to look back at him. Who knows, now, what Johnny likes, and how he likes it. Who doesn’t want to touch him any more. Johnny presses against the back of the tub and tries to make himself smaller.

“Are you back now?”

Peter is a good friend. He reaches for him anyway.

 

Johnny reaches for his shirt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my headcanon is that the pheromones don't fully leave your body until you come. Johnny is just sitting there desperately for hours going out of his mind because Daken accidentally dosed him with too many, then (justifiably) panicked and left him in drop.
> 
> Next chapter is gonna be sickly sweet to make up for this one I promise.


	4. Have You And Lose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reconciliation. Johnny forgot what it is to be loved gently. He's still learning.

It’s radio silence for _weeks_ . Johnny goes clubbing, and finally furnishes his shitty apartment with stained but tolerable Craigslist purchases, and kisses lots of girls- he’s still _normal_ , he really does love kissing girls, and he’s good at it- and spends several nights in a row getting blackout drunk in dive bars with a hat slung low over his face, and tries very hard not to think about it.

His head is buzzing and his phone is buzzing and he doesn’t have the will to speak today.

“Johnny. Hey. Hi. It’s uh, it’s been a while. I know you don’t want to talk about. And we don’t have to, but can we… still talk? I miss you. Johnny, I lo-- I left your jeans in my room. They’re um, clean now, and they look expensive, so, just let me know when you want to come pick them up-”

He’s out the window before Peter finishes the voicemail.

  


🔥

  


Johnny doesn’t get the jeans all the way on before Peter’s pressing him against the wall, touch light but insistent, pulling them back down and breathing him in and touching his jaw softly, too soft. He forgets how _soft_ Peter can be with all of that coiled force in him, all that sinew and spider strength thrumming deep to his bones. He doesn’t understand why this is still happening. He’s scared to ask out loud in case Peter remembers that it’s him and the spell is broken. He’s carried to the bed like he weighs nothing and laid out so gently and Peter doesn’t web him down, this time. He cards a hand through Johnny’s hair, cradles his chin, kisses a featherlight trail down his jaw and neck, tickles the pale skin beneath the hem of his shirt. Johnny’s chest jumps. He can’t breathe.

He’s free to move, now, could thrust up into the hands and push them into his skin until he bruises purple and black- but finds himself immobilized still under his friend’s piercing gaze. He _needs_ it. “Hurry up and touch me, Pete.” It comes out more of a whimper than he’d admit. He’ll take what he’s given. But he always wants More.

Peter huffs a laugh, raking gentle fingers over his chest and tracing shapes into his skin while Johnny squirms.

“I am.”

“ _Hard_.”

He smirks down and presses Johnny’s fingers to his clit through worn boxers, huffs out a stuttering breath at the contact.

“I am!”

He brings the fingers to his lips, then, kisses them one by one and laves at Johnny’s knuckles. He laces Johnny’s fingers through his own, and suddenly Johnny’s face is wet. And his heart is in his throat and Peter’s dick _isn’t_ which is just so patently unfair, and hasn’t his life been unfair enough recently, and why can’t he _breathe_.

If this is the last time he’s going to make it count. Peter knows his secret now- Johnny saw the way he _looked_ at him last time, can’t pretend he’s okay with it any more, can’t pretend he’s still doing Johnny a meaningless favor, no webs attached.

But Johnny knows now, too. He knows the heat of the other man’s body on his, grinding, grounding. He knows how it feels to be tied down and vulnerable- to choose it, this time- when it’s a different kind of torture. He knows the scent of Peter’s sweat and shampoo and the exhilarating way his skin thrums hotter when he’s just been swinging. And he knows his mouth, knows the only way to shut it up.

He doesn’t want Peter to talk and ruin this. He doesn’t want to hear what he has to say about him. Johnny surges into him now, finally remembers he has free range of motion and uses _all_ of it, kisses Peter like he wanted to when he first saw him again, when he was the first thing he saw waiting on the other side in that stupid costume and hugging him and holding him like he was something special. He runs the still-slick fingers through Peter’s soft hair and pulls him down, pupils blown wide at the sudden pressure. Crushing their mouths together, Johnny goes cross-eyed trying to map his skin, to hold onto touch-memories as long as he can. He bites at Peter’s lip when he starts to pull away, tries to communicate everything he doesn’t want to speak aloud.  _Stay, stay, hold me tighter._

“Spidey…” He licks into his mouth and sucks in a shaky breath as they pull apart, chest sliding against bare chest. Desperate from the absence of contact, untethered with nothing to ground him and nothing to hold him down, he guides Peter’s palm to his hot skin and presses his nails deep into his own neck. A thumb swipes tenderly across Johnny’s open lips, and he _does not_ whine. “P- Peter. Pete, don’t go easy on me. I need…”

But the man above him ignores his pleas and grasps his face again with both hands. Kisses him back- too sweetly for what this is, for the fragility of what they’re doing. Pants into his mouth, lightly presses his lips to lips and cheeks and neck. He’s been lingering far too long above the waist today, just teasing, and something feels _wrong_ this time. Peter pulls Johnny upright again, like a rag doll; wraps arms firmly around his back and looks into his eyes. But when he speaks his voice shakes with quiet anger.

“You can’t keep _doing_ this to me.”

Johnny chokes out a laugh, stunned. “You’re… I’m pretty sure you’ve been d-doing this to _me._ And y- you instigated, this time.” It comes out choppy and coiled too tight, more hurt by the rejection than he intended ever to be or to show. Everyone leaves. Everyone. He knew this was coming.

“ _No_. Johnny, you can’t. You can’t use me to hurt you.”

He stiffens at the accusation, cowers back down into the sheets and lays there- the only thing he’s good at. He closes his eyes against tears that threaten to fall. ‘I’m not-” he begins.

Peter swings his strong legs over the edge of the bed and stands, turns to walk away and Johnny scrambles to keep him.

“I-I-I would never use y-you.”

Peter whirls on him from halfway across the room, eyes squeezed shut, voice rising in pitch and _shaking_ . “I just want to _help_ ! I just want to _help_ you, Johnny, and you won’t _let me_. You’re my bo- my best friend! And you don’t let me in.”

Now Johnny finds it in him to rise up again. He’s seething too.

“Maybe I _don’t want your help_ ! I don’t want your favors and I don’t want to talk and I _don’t_ want another p-pity fuck from someone who th-thinks I’m _easy_.”

(He _does_.)

 

He flings the pillow at Peter’s head and sneers. “I don’t need this from you. Not from you. Get out of my _house_ , Bug. They’re... not coming b-back. They’re gone and I want to g-go home.”

Peter bites his tongue for probably the first time in his life. “Okay.”

“ _Okay?_ ”

“Okay. You sleep here tonight. I’ll… be around, if you need me.” He slinks out then, pauses at the doorway without turning to face him. “You’re, ah. You’re singeing the sheets. Let me… I’ll be right back.” Johnny just lies there, steaming, literally and figuratively, jeans down to his ankles and desperately hard and trying not to catch the bed on fire out of spite.

The door creaks open again, tentative, and his wretched host is back laden with the fireproofed bedspread from his old California King. (Reed had developed a new compound and gotten the sheets up to 99.872% flame resistant. He doesn’t want to think about how hard it is, living like this, without Reed. He doesn’t want to think). “You- you kept them. Why did you keep this.”

Peter hums forlornly, tucking down the corners of the fitted sheet. “Good night, sweet pea. I’m gonna… I’m gonna give you some space.”

Johnny scrambles to his bag and dry swallows four sleeping pills. The room blurs as he cocoons the sheet over him and against the soft pillows from his own bed, Peter's now collecting dust where he's hurled it on the floor somewhere in the dark. He thought he wouldn’t ever feel it again, but- Johnny is cold.

 

🔥

 

He wakes with the early morning light streaming through the sheer curtains and into his face. The events of last night rattle around in his brain as he scours the floor for his remaining clothes. He finds socks and boxers but gives up on the sweater after several minutes of prodding through Peter’s shit. His nose wrinkles but he can’t bring himself to be bothered by the dirty clothes and stacks of papers. The new Baxter Building feels so clinical and corporate- at least the mess is familiar ground. He pushes out into the hallway and makes a beeline for the kitchen, wholly anticipating a fridge filled entirely with pizza bagels.

He’s greeted instead by a small but very expensive-looking sleek chrome table, set with a single plate and a glass of orange juice. The eggs are scrambled-  well-seasoned but surely the only kind Peter can manage- and a little crunchier than they should be, and the first bite before he insta-microwaves them is cold. But the gesture is touching, and assuages his simmering anger a little.

After a pensive ten minutes spent sulking into his empty glass, he decides to explore what Parker Industries has done with the place. See what’s salvageable. He knows he can’t remotely afford to live here again, that he doesn’t deserve it, that he’s nothing without the rest of the FF. He also knows that they _will_ come back for him. He loves his family, and they love him. They tell him so. If they were dead… he would know, somehow. He would feel it in his bones.

After careful consideration he decides to start the self-guided haunted house tour with the Executive Washroom. Get it out of the way, deal with the incalculable anger and betrayal first thing so he can focus on rebuilding. When he opens the door he stands stock-still in disbelief.

It’s… it’s still his bedroom. Untouched. Well... except for the huddled mass of Peter’s body curled into a parenthesis atop the bare mattress pad. Resting his head on Johnny’s pilfered, balled up sweater. One of the soft sleeves pressed to his face. Even in sleep, his eyebrows are drawn bowstring-tight and his lips pursed like he’s trying to solve an elusive math problem. Half-lit by the early morning sun inching over his hair, the shell of his ear, the back of his neck. His broad, toned chest rising and falling slowly. Stagnant, at peace, cradling Johnny’s stupid Jacquard weave Versace sweater. He’s beautiful.

 

 

Johnny is so screwed.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got a beta reader, guys. This is my first published fic, I'm figuring this out as I go. Huge shoutout to [Euphorion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphorion) for proofreading. Read her Femslash February theydies and gentlefemmes, it's gonna be big.


	5. All That I Wanted Was Lying On Tiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's trans stay mad about it!!!!!!!!
> 
> He's also Jewish, catch the Yiddish that's for you traincat.  
> S/O to [bobafutch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobafutch) for betaing this chapter.

He maybe stares a little longer than a best friend rightfully should. He maybe makes some more eggs and sits on the floor with two plates and leans his head on the doorframe. He _purportedly_ spends a solid ten minutes staring at the taut muscle of Peter’s back, shifting ever so slightly with his breath. Maybe. Who’s to say, really.

Peter stirs by the time the sun is shining fully on his face, rubs the sleep out of long eyelashes- _schmutz_ , he would correct him if he were conscious enough to speak- instead he shifts to press his face into the pillow, stretches toned arms before him absently like a cat, and emits a breathy yawn.

Johnny chokes on his omelette.

At the sound Peter bolts upright, one hand on a web shooter ( _Where was he keeping them?_ ), and the ever-present tension immediately courses back into his veins. Johnny can _feel_ it- heat thrums in his ears and he only feels a little bit guilty about basking in the warmth. He grins and laughingly blows a kiss when Peter makes eye contact. The other man pinches the bridge of his nose and scowls, sticks out his tongue in retaliation. Johnny tries not to stare and think of how that tongue feels pressed flush against his body and humming. He fails.

Peeking over the crest of his back Johnny can see a nipple pebbled hard, silhouetted dark against the halo of autumn sunlight. Peter shivers and pulls the sweater to cover his chest, presses a meticulously cuffed sleeve to his cheek. Johnny knows, intuitively, that it’s colder in this room- he’d never really had to worry about heating or insulation before. He should offer to bring the blankets back from the other bedroom, but… he doesn’t really want to leave and miss this. He doesn’t want to cover this up.

Peter inhales the crisp air a little shakily, and runs the free hand through his unruly bedhead. It’s… cute. Johnny bounces up onto the balls of his feet and proffers the second omelette to his friend, the prettier one with more tomatoes.

Peter speaks cautiously, for once, voice still rough and tentative from disuse for several whole hours consecutively. “Are you… still mad at me? Do you want me to move out?”

Johnny tousles his messy hair and huffs a resigned sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe. Thank you for breakfast. And for... “ He balances the plate on Peter’s knee and turns to stare at the familiar ceiling of his once-bedroom, suddenly nostalgic to trace the scorch marks in the crown molding with his eyes, suddenly very engaged in Not Looking At Him. “Thanks.”

He feels more than sees Peter reaching for his food, the scrape of a fork in the dimly lit room taking him by surprise anyway. Peter, predictably, scarfs down his breakfast in under two minutes, once again spitting in the face of Taurus gourmands everywhere. He swallows the last bite, licks the fork clean with his talented tongue (despite himself Johnny watches in his periphery and swallows hard), and starts talking with his hands.

“Mmmmh- any time, whatever you need Hot Stuff, I _love_... your, omelet will you show me how to make it? The omelet?” When Johnny can bear to look back at his face, it’s contorted into something strange. He can’t identify it. He’s seen a _lot_ of Peter’s face, and he doesn’t recognize this one. After a brief flicker in the facade Peter schools his expression back to studied indifference.

“Uh… yeah buddy, we can go to Whole Foods this weekend-” Peter makes a face- “and stock up on some fresh produce if you’d like, we’ll make it together, okay?”

Peter looks relieved for some reason. “Fine but I’m not paying for _Whole Foods_.” He dramatically crinkles his nose in disgust.

Johnny blinks. “You have… millions of dollars.”

“Yeah and I’m not wasting them on organic GMO-free kale, we’re going to the questionable bodega two blocks away and you’re gonna like it. There’s a sleepy golden retriever.” He cranes his neck up sort of sheepishly at Johnny standing above him, shakes off the morning fogginess still clinging to his skin. “I, um. I’m sorry about the sweater. It- _also_ looks expensive. It’s just that all the pillows were kind of, on the floor in the other… and-”

“Keep it.” Johnny’s lips move without his permission. “It s-suits you. You’ll fill it out better than me anyway.”

  
🔥

As soon as Peter is Upright he cradles Johnny tight and half-guides, half-carries him to the bathroom- an addition down the hall, of course, of _course_ the FF’s bedrooms remained pristine and untouched, what a _complete_ _asshole-_ runs the jacuzzi til they can see steam rise and Johnny strips slow for him down to just his thin white undershirt, laughing, Peter standing there sucking his bottom lip between his teeth in only his sweater. In his- _his_ sweater. Johnny slides it up his arms and pulls, and Peter lets him, going with it and pressing their bodies close. His rippling strength radiates against Johnny’s lithe, pale, sickly form, and he _surely_ feels Johnny’s heart stutter into his throat when he kisses his neck. As Johnny thrusts his head back in submission, Peter hoists him up by his thighs and seats him gently, laughing again, in the basin of the white marble tub. He could just lay here and be touched softly and laugh into his friend’s mouth forever.

The jets bubble and churn around him, making him feel dizzy and euphoric. The thin white cotton of his shirt clings to his chest suggestively. Johnny pulls a carefully practiced smoldering pout and blinks up through the fat droplets of water on his eyelashes. He strokes himself once, slowly, already half hard from being held like that and watching Peter sleep. “Are you planning to join me this time or are you gonna stand there and watch?”

🔥

 

Johnny pushes Peter off of him suddenly, gasping for air. “Wait, stop, uh… yellow? We never really-” Peter sinks back on his knees and instantly draws his hands away, looking genuinely concerned. It’s touching. It is... too much touching.

Peter cocks his head and his mouth is a tight line of worry. Johnny is heaving in ragged breaths and his hands are trying to find purchase on the slippery sides of the tub. “Are you okay? I can leave and get you... tea, a- a washcloth or- is it, Johnny is it something I did? Did I hurt-”

“Peter. Shut _up_.” Johnny’s voice is breathier than usual and he shifts uncomfortably as he speaks. “Close, I’m… I’m really close, Peter.”

He looks at Johnny in bewilderment and huffs a silent laugh, just a puff of air. “That’s the goal, yeah.”

“No, I want… what about _you_. You never- I want us to come t-together.” He bends forward to mouth at Peter’s hip, raises a brow questioningly.

Peter swallows and nods, slides onto the wide edge of the tub and spreads his legs. “Really kills the mood when you quote the Beatles at me while we’re making-” Johnny sucks a scattered field of hickeys to the insides of Peter’s legs before darting his tongue experimentally, slowly, across his labia. “Ah. M-mmaking out.” Peter reels, and Johnny grasps his hands to thread into his own hair, fingers pressing in around Peter’s own, locks eyes and bobs his head imploringly.

As Johnny sweetly sucks him off Peter guides him with hands in his hair, each sharp pull making him moan around Peter’s clit or cry out with his cheek pressed to soft wet skin. If Johnny thought _he_ was loud in bed, Peter- as with everything else, even now, here under his hands- has him topped. He groans and pants open-mouthed and makes more wisecracks, half-formed and aborted on a punched out moan. He tells Johnny at every turn how good he’s being, how good he is at this, how he missed him.

Johnny _is_ good at this, he doesn’t need to waste two perfectly good hands when one pliant mouth will do. Instead he soaps their bodies, both of them slick and wet and clean and smelling faintly of- he squints reproachfully at the bottle- PURE SPORT RED ZONE FOAMER. Straight men are so embarrassing sometimes.

The grip in his hair softens and Peter's eyes slide open, look directly into his, shining. "Johnny...  _b'shirt_."

"Oh." He suddenly remembers the thin, drenched white T shirt- the only barrier keeping the man beside him from the scars he doesn't want to think about. How translucent is it? Can he see them somehow? Is he going to leave? He licks a stripe up Peter's chest, presses his nose against the trail of coarse hair guiding him back down. "Not right now, Webs. I'm cold."

Before Peter can object that he doesn't _get_ cold Johnny is redoubling his efforts, the featherlight touches turning sharper and more solid, sucking him off with renewed fervor. He massages Peter’s back and shoulders, digs in with nimble fingers to relieve tension and rolls his tongue at the same time, and Peter cries out and bucks forward, murmuring a litany of praises, tightening his grasp on Johnny’s hair.

“Fuck, fuck fuck you’re so- who _taught_ you this? Crystal? Dorrie?  Was Dorrie Evans your first?”

 

He doesn’t understand why _Peter_ sounds hurt. Doris teased that she would leave him for Spider-Man the _entire_ time they were together, and married the next guy she dated after ditching Johnny for his sister's wedding. There’s no part of his life the wall-crawler doesn’t have a vice grip on any more- maybe there never was. He nips affectionately at Peter’s inner thigh before plastering a smirk over his crushed ego. “You can’t be jealous I’m a better singer than you _and_ be jealous of my exes, Pete, it’s bad form.”

Peter grins back and surges downward to kiss him roughly on the mouth, easily cradles Johnny half-submerged, half-suspended above the tub. Johnny slips one hand to drape around his neck and hold them in place; the other he drops to press into Peter. He rests one finger teasingly against his hole, barely applying pressure, waiting for confirmation.

Peter grinds against it even as he reaches for Johnny’s hand and pins it easily behind his back, twisting with just enough pressure to make Johnny _ache_ with want. “Not inside,” he hisses. He drags butterfly kisses with the gentle press of long eyelashes up Johnny’s neck and bites down on his ear. “Are you still close, sunshine?”

Johnny nods sharply, swallows his heart as Peter swings them forward into the bath once more, now firmly on top of him, crashing their mouths together again as he strokes Johnny til he’s shaking apart beneath deft hands.

 

 

 

Johnny gasps and claws at his back. “Come with me.”

 

Peter’s head collapses onto Johnny’s racing chest, gripping a fistful of his skintight shirt, humming incandescently.

“Stay with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Schmutz_ is Yiddish for dirt or grime, some Jewish mothers will call the "sand" in your eyes _schmutz_
> 
>  _B'shert_ means soulmate, someone you were destined to meet and be close to. Not always romantic (here it is) and not always someone's Only Soulmate (he's not), but a very sweet vulnerable thing to confess, in a language someone actually understands. He's getting there. He's almost there.


End file.
